Silent Knight: A Fog City Novel

by Layla Reyne

  “If she’s behind this—”

  Hawes rolled out from under Chris’s hands and closer to him, stretching an arm across the back of Holt’s chair. “We won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “There’s another possibility we have to consider,” came Helena’s voice from behind them.

  Hawes lowered his arm and Holt swiveled, knocking knees with his twin as they both turned the same direction toward their sister. “Who?” Holt asked.

  “Jax.”

  Holt clenched his fists again, even as Helena raised her hands, palms out. “I don’t want to think it either, Little H, but they have the expertise and the SFPD connections. It’d be easy enough for them to slip that photo in.”

  “No way,” Chris said, beating Holt to a retort. “I watched them interact with Kane a lot last year and since then too. Jax wouldn’t turn on him.”

  “Or on me,” Holt added. Helena opened her mouth, no doubt to play lawyer, but Holt was already a step ahead of her. “But I never thought my own wife would betray me either, so I’ll run the checks.” He jutted a thumb at a secondary window he had open onscreen. “Same as I’m running a piggyback on Amelia’s work in case she tries to redirect or copy it elsewhere.”

  Helena lowered her hands. “Okay, so, who’s that leave us with?”

  “Detectives Packard and Fletcher,” Avery answered. “That’s what we were going over in Chris’s office when you came in,” she said to Holt.

  “What’d you find out?” he asked.

  “Packard is a nonfactor. Dude is scared shitless. Saw me and Hawes coming last night and spilled his guts.”

  “We didn’t even have to press,” Hawes said. “He didn’t want to leak that report. He looks up to Kane like a mentor, and he’s a fellow vet, but he got a series of texts the other night.”

  Avery stepped forward, removed the folder from under her arm, and handed it to Holt.

  Holt flipped through the pictures inside it. A smiling woman with two preteen kids bearing a striking resemblance to her and Packard. The woman and kids were dressed differently in each, and the backgrounds varied as well. Fuck. “Someone was on his family?”

  Hawes nodded. “For a few months, he thinks.”

  “They recently reconciled,” Avery said. “He’s terrified to lose them again.”

  “You get the details on the text?”

  Hawes stuck a hand in his jacket pocket and produced a flash drive. “Thought you might ask.”

  Holt closed his fingers around the small piece of plastic. “And what about Fletcher? If I had to guess, he’s Brax’s bigger worry right now.”

  “I made some calls,” Chris said. “Everyone I talked to confirmed the loner bit. Prefers to work solo, some say he’s aloof, others say he’s arrogant. They all say he works hard, closes cases, is fair and above-board. A natural at internal affairs as much as one can be.”

  “Personal details?” Helena asked.

  “Forty, unmarried, no kids, cut off his family in college. Rents a condo in The Montgomery.”

  “Why’d he cut them off?” Hawes asked at the same time Helena squawked, “How the hell does he afford The Montgomery on a detective’s salary?”

  “Unclear,” Chris answered. “On both.”

  Two good questions. “I’ll dig into those,” Holt said. “Any other leverage points?”

  “None that I could find.”

  Just because Chris couldn’t find anything on the surface didn’t mean there weren’t skeletons buried in the web somewhere. And now Holt had more to go on. His fingers itched with the anticipation of the hunt.

  “He and Kane crossed paths in Boston,” Chris continued. “Worked a few cases together. I suspect that’s why Kane recruited him. Good cop and a known factor.”

  And for the kill. “Who’s betraying him now,” Holt fumed.

  “Not exactly how it works,” Chris replied. “Yes, IA can initiate its own investigations, but the more likely course is that someone brought the matter to IA.”

  “That’s what we need to figure out,” Hawes said.

  “You’ve got two days,” Helena interjected. “Brax’s IA hearing is set for Friday.”

  “Fuck.” Holt swung back around to the computers, shoved in the flash drive, and stretched out his fingers, dispersing the tingles.

  Hawes stood and squeezed his shoulder. “What do you need?”

  “Who,” Holt said. “Get me Crystal and Monroe from my team. I need extra hands on this,” he said, gesturing at the lists of IP addresses populating his screen. “And field operatives on standby to run down leads once we narrow the list.”

  “Alice and Malik just left on an op,” Helena said, “I can free up Connor and Elisabeth. Victoria too.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “On it, boss,” Avery said and disappeared out the door.

  “I’ll take Lily duty when she wakes,” Hawes said.

  “Once I get going here, she’ll stay out for a while.” Much to their relief, his rapid-fire typing still seemed to keep his daughter in a deep slumber, teething fits aside.

  “More coffee, then?” Chris said, retrieving Holt’s empty mug.

  “Hey!” Helena squawked again, and in the reflection of the monitors, Holt could see her face scrunched in mock outrage. “What happened to detoxing?”

  He smiled, improbably, then leaned his head back and blew her an upside-down kiss. “If you love me, you’ll get me some of that Turkish rocket fuel you guzzle when you’re in trial.”

  Bending, she kissed his forehead. “You’re lucky I love you.”

  “I know.” He was lucky. Lucky to have the love and support of all of them and their skills when he needed them most, to help save the man he’d brought into their family, who mattered most to him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Holt held his tablet in one hand and knocked on Brax’s door with the other. Sure, he could have used his key, but he could scroll through data just as well out here while waiting for Brax to open the door. Besides, letting himself into the condo in the middle of the night seemed rude. Unannounced no less, because in his excitement at finally having a lead, Holt had forgotten to call first. What if Brax had company? What if Holt was interrupting—

  That half-formed thought settled like a brick in his stomach, heavier than it had any right to be. He didn’t expect Brax had been a monk all these years, but in the time since Brax had been in San Francisco, he’d never brought anyone around for Holt to meet. Why was that? Had he made Brax feel like he couldn’t?

  Fuck.

  And fuck, why had he had so much coffee? His thoughts were pinging all around like a pinball in one of those machines with too many flashing lights and levers. Like that night he’d shown up in Brax’s officer quarters. Only then it had been a never-ending string of fears and what-ifs. His own life, those of his teammates, the entire operation. Brax had been the only person he could talk to freely. The only person who could make the storm stop. Was this any different? Yes, the storm was swirling around Brax this time, he was the center of it, but what was it they said about hurricanes? The center—the eye—was the calm of the storm. Holt was in control of the information this time—he had a lead—but that didn’t make the storm, what was at risk, any less terrifying.

  He raised his fist to knock again but stopped just shy of his knuckles hitting wood. Light flickered on in the hallway on the other side of the door, and through the gauzy curtain that covered the inset window, Holt watched as Brax—alone—approached the door. He opened it, and Holt bit back a wince.

  Fuck, he should have waited until morning. Should have ignored his own needs, his own terrified excitement, and put Brax’s needs first. He’d definitely been asleep—had the pillow crease on his cheek to prove it—but he also had the bags under his eyes to prove he hadn’t been out for enough hours. He looked tired, drained of energy, a look Holt couldn’t remember seeing on Brax before the past nine months, during which he’d worn it entirely too often.

  �
�Holt,” Brax greeted on a yawn. He stood over the threshold, flannel-clad hip and T-shirted shoulder leaning against the door frame. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “Blame Helena’s coffee. Fuck. No, blame me. I’m sorry.” He tucked the tablet under his arm and turned to go. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

  A hand clutched the back of his jacket. “Get inside.”

  He let himself be tugged back into the condo, turned, and shoved forward, down the hallway in front of Brax. “Where’s Lily?”

  “Asleep at home.”

  “Where you should be.”

  “I had a pot of that rocket fuel Helena drinks.”

  Brax chuckled. “No more for you, then.” He gave Holt another shove toward the couch and continued to the kitchen. “What can I get you instead?”

  Holt tossed the tablet onto the coffee table, feeling all kinds of guilty at the way Brax swayed on his feet as he stared into the open fridge. “Seriously, I’ll go.” He stood again. “I’ll come back in the morning.”

  “Sit, Private.”

  Holt obeyed, then shot Brax the bird when the other man turned around, a smirk turning up one corner of his mouth. He knew Holt would react on instinct to the barked order. “Not fair.”

  Brax shrugged. “Worked, didn’t it?” He held out a can of ginger ale. “Now, tell me what was so important you rushed over here.”

  He popped open the can, took a sip, and waited for Brax to get situated on the sofa. He angled toward Holt, one leg hitched up on the seat, an arm braced on top of the cushions, a hint of ink Holt didn’t recognize peeking out from under his short sleeve. Overall, Brax looked mostly awake. He looked determined to stay that way, more than anything. Damage done, Holt took one more sip then traded his can of soda for his tablet. A couple of taps and he handed the tablet to Brax, open to a profile photo of a young woman with purple hair, delicate features, and tattoos—sunflowers—that ran the length of her arm, exposed by a sleeveless sundress. “Do you know a Samantha Pritchard?”

  “This is her?”

  “We think so.”

  Brax handed the tablet back. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Picture doesn’t either. Who is she?”

  “I’m working with Amelia—”

  Brax bolted halfway to standing, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. “You’re what?”

  Holt caught him by the wrist and tugged him back down. Then tugged the soda can out of his hand before Brax crushed it. “She got me into FCI Dublin’s mainframe.” He set the can next to his on the table. “I piggybacked all her maneuvers. She didn’t pull any shit. She’s helping for real. I think she actually likes you.”

  “Debate for another day.” He propped his elbow on the sofa cushion again and rested his head in his hand. “Tell me the rest.”

  “We think Samantha Pritchard”—he gestured with the tablet—“is the person who altered the photo of you and Swanson and sent it to Thompson. We linked an IP address to her, and that same IP address pinged two other cartel contacts.”

  “Shit. They found out Swanson met with me.”

  “Seems like it. They took him out the cartel way, but it’s harder to kill a police chief.”

  “So they’re trying to get rid of me another way.”

  Holt nodded. “They hired Samantha to doctor the photo and send it to SFPD.”

  “Fuck.” Brax shifted, putting both feet on the floor and slumping back into the sofa, head tipped back, eyes closed. “Camino’s been trying to get a foothold ever since you guys took out Reno’s crew. There’s a power vacuum.”

  “And you’re gumming up the works.” In some ways, it was a relief. Yes, the Madigans had created the vacuum, but Brax had unwittingly stepped into the middle of a cartel grab for power. Any police chief who had a potential CI in that crime circle would do the same. This wasn’t someone—wasn’t Rose—coming after Brax as revenge or as a way to get at them.

  “Is she at Dublin?”

  “No, but we think she might have been. The spoof was too good. I don’t think physical forgery is her only specialty. There were three pings from that IP address in the history, so she was there, or is tight enough with someone there to walk them through the process.”

  Brax rotated his head and lifted his eyelids, looking at Holt with tired hazel eyes. “But she’s not a registered prisoner there?”

  Holt shook his head. “Nor is Samantha Pritchard an alias of anyone there.”

  “Fuck.” He shifted forward on the couch, grabbing his soda and taking another long swallow.

  Holt reached out and laid a hand on his back, digging his fingers into the knot between his shoulder blades. “Who do you want to take it to?” he asked softly.

  Brax’s gaze whipped to his. “I’m sorry, what?”

  Holt stopped the motion of his fingers and flattened his hand. “I heard you last night. This is your job, your decision. Helena can call the warden in the morning, see if she recognizes Pritchard. Or you can take this info to your assistant chief or to IA. Or we can take this to the feds, which was Hawes’s suggestion. In any case, it’s your call.”

  Brax held his gaze a moment longer, then retreated back to staring at the floor. But elbows braced on his knees, he rolled his back for more of the massage and Holt picked up where he’d left off. “I trust Maya,” Brax said, “but I don’t want to put her in that position. IA… Fletch is a good cop, but it’s bigger than just this matter.”

  Some of the shine wore off Holt’s excitement. He was still hitting roadblocks where Fletcher was concerned. He was sure something was there. Personally, it didn’t all add up, but professionally, the detective’s IA career and investigations seemed to be in order. For now, they had to go with the lead they did have. “But this can be a start, yeah? Take this matter off the stack? Get you reinstated.”

  “Maybe, but we need it nailed down better before we take it to Fletch. That’s the only way I get reinstated.” Brax straightened and scooted to the end of the couch cushion. “Tell Helena not to call the warden yet. I agree with Hawes. We take this to the feds. They’ve been building a case against the cartel.”

  “Since Hawes turned over Reno’s guy last year?”

  Brax nodded. “But we take this to them through a broker. This may help them but not without helping us too.” Holt liked the sound of us.

  “Mel?”

  “She’s our best bet.” Brax leaned forward and retrieved the tablet. “Send me the picture of Pritchard.” He handed the tablet to Holt and stood with a barely muffled groan. “I need to make a call. Phone’s charging in my room.”

  “This late?” Holt said.

  “Cruz sleeps less than I do. I’ll be right back.”

  Brax tossed him a half smile over his shoulder. Tired, but real, and reaching his eyes for the first time in days. Weeks maybe. Months even. Definitely a win. Smiling himself, Holt forwarded the collected info, then tossed his tablet on the table and leaned back. He’d made the right decision convincing his family this was Brax’s choice. Brax had needed that control, needed to know and trust that they could help him without compromising his job or how he wanted to handle things. He needed an active role in the chaos. Holt could appreciate that, having felt like a bystander to his own hurricane more than once last year. More than that, Holt needed to start rebuilding the trust that had been crumbling between them. Satisfied things were moving the right direction, Holt closed his eyes, resting them for just a minute.

  “Come on, let’s get your feet up.” Brax’s words came at him as if from far away, muffled and quiet. Familiar hands shifted him on the couch, lifting his legs and gently lowering his torso. Eyes still closed, his lids too heavy to lift, the caffeine high finally worn off, Holt nestled into the cushions that smelled like all the good things he associated with Brax—caramel, fabric starch, and his daughter. He stretched his legs out and smiled sleepily, a question he’d always wondered flitting through his fuzzy head. “Why’s it so long?”

  A calloused hand, then soft warm lips
, brushed his forehead. “In case you ever needed to fit.”

  Brax’s breath was gone before Holt could fight through the fog of sleep to chase after it, and then he didn’t want to when warm, knitted wool was spread over him. Lily loved this blanket. Brax covered her with it all the time like he had the other night. Like Brax had used its match to cover both of them the night Holt had learned of Amelia’s betrayal. Holt had cried and cradled Lily close while Brax had stood guard over them, his hands on the top of the rocker or on Holt’s shoulders. If Holt had had the legs to stand on that night, he would have been in Brax’s arms. He didn’t doubt that Brax would have held him all night if that’s what he’d needed.

  What he needed.

  Holt pushed through his own drowsiness, enough to open his eyes and flail out a hand, catching Brax’s wrist. “You can fit too.”

  “You should be comfortable.”

  “And you should sleep. I can make sure you do that.” He scooted back and eyed the room he’d made. “Here.”

  Holt tugged on his wrist again, and Brax put up a token resistance. “Private.”

  “Captain.”

  A long stare later, Brax gave in and lowered himself onto the couch, his back to Holt. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table, then glanced over his shoulder. “Are you gonna get any sleep this way?”